


When You Come to a Fork in the Road

by golden_d



Series: Wait for Spring [3]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Baseball, F/M, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 09:37:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1382665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/golden_d/pseuds/golden_d
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A preface, a missing scene, a coda.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this work is, of course, from one of Yogi Berra's many quotable sayings: "When you come to a fork in the road, take it."
> 
> Well, I took it, given that the other option was letting these three chapters sit around for another eighteen months, waiting to be finished. Each chapter was originally meant to be part of an individual longer work - I doubt I'll ever finish them, but I couldn't abandon them completely. Since they fit well together, thematically, I thought I'd post what I've written so far, and at least partially finish telling Arthur and Eames' stories. The first two chapters are un-beta'd, but blue_fjords beta'd the final chapter, back when I wrote it in January 2013. Thanks, Blue!
> 
> As I write this, it's two years and a day since I finished posting "Wait for Spring" on the kinkmeme. The baseball season starts in two days. Spring is almost here.

The thing is, Ariadne’s known Arthur since she skipped eighth grade and went straight to high school, thirteen years old, smaller than everybody and smarter, too. She didn’t know he was gay back then, because she was _thirteen_ , hello, she’d barely hit puberty, let alone developed gaydar. (In fairness, Arthur wouldn’t figure out he was gay for another few months anyway.) But he’s the first person in the entire school to look at her and smile, and even though they don’t have any classes together, he lets her sit next to him in homeroom _and_ during lunch. 

“I’m gonna be a baseball player when I grow up,” he tells her confidently. “I’m gonna be an even better shortstop than Ozzie Smith.”

“That’d be pretty good,” Ariadne says, not that she knows who Ozzie Smith is, but she knows it’s what he wants to hear.

“What about you?” he asks. “What do you want to be?”

She pretends to think about it, because no one likes it when she delivers an answer right off the bat. “I want to be an architect,” she said, waiting for the response she knows she’ll get, the same response all the adults always give her: _Aw, look at the little thirteen-year-old, she’s got such grown up aspirations._

But Arthur only says, “That’s cool. So you’re gonna build buildings and stuff?”

“And stuff,” she laughs. “I’m gonna _design_ buildings, and other people are gonna build them for me.”

“So you’ll be pretty important,” he says with a grin.

Ariadne smiles. “Yeah. I will.”

\--

They do homework together at Arthur’s house on the days when Arthur doesn’t have baseball practice. She’s better at math and he’s better at English, and even though their classes aren’t reading all the same books, he still knows how to help her with her homework questions and vocabulary words. Sometimes she feels a little guilty, getting so much help from him, but then she remembers that she’s the reason he’s passing algebra and doesn’t feel so guilty anymore.

One afternoon after they’ve finished their homework, they’re watching a baseball game on tv. One team’s wearing blue uniforms and the other’s wearing red, which is about all the attention Ariadne’s ever paid to the different teams, but Arthur’s enthralled. He’s giving a detailed enough play-by-play that she doesn’t even need to listen to the announcers, gesturing animatedly and rising out of his seat in excitement when the blue team gets a hit.

Baseball always seemed pretty boring before, but if Arthur likes it that much, it can’t be that bad. She resolves to pay more attention. The first thing she learns: The blue team is called the Dodgers.

\--

“I’ve got a baseball game after school tomorrow,” Arthur tells her, scuffing his shoe on the grass. “Do you want to come watch?”

She does, but she’s not sure if her mom will let her. But it’s only a couple of hours, Ariadne _knows_ her mom won’t mind. “Okay,” she says.

(She neglects to tell her mom that she’ll be home a little late the next day. Consequently, Ariadne gets grounded, which means no hanging out with Arthur for a _whole week_. It sucks.)

The first day she’s out of captivity, she goes over to Arthur’s, ostensibly to do homework, but mostly to watch the Dodgers. They’re playing on the East Coast, Arthur explains, so it’s a nighttime game in New York, even though it’s only four o’clock in California. (Ariadne knows how time zones work, but Arthur likes explaining things anyway.) Mr. and Mrs. Wolf let her stay for dinner when the game is over.

“How come we never go over to your house?” he asks her the next day, when they’re sitting next to each other on his living room floor, homework papers spread around them.

“We don’t have a tv,” she says. “Couldn’t watch baseball.”

“You don’t have a _tv_?” he asks, wide-eyed. “So you’ve never watched tv _ever_?”

Ariadne makes a face at him. “We _used_ to have a tv, but my mom says that tv rots your brains or something. So now if I want to watch anything, I have to go over to my dad’s house. And that means spending time with his _girlfriend_.” She wrinkles her nose. “I’d rather just not watch tv.”

“Oh,” Arthur says awkwardly. “I didn’t know your parents...”

“It’s not a big deal.” He gives her a skeptical look, and she so desperately wants to change the subject. The way he’s sitting, looking at her, his hair is falling a little in his face, and it makes her catch her breath a little. He’d hate her for saying it, but she thinks he’s beautiful.

“Can I kiss you?” Ariadne blurts, a lot less suavely than she’d meant to be. Arthur stammers, but can’t manage any actual words, so she takes her chances and leans forward and kisses him on the lips, quick and dry. Then she pulls back and blushes fiercely.

“Was that okay?” she asks nervously. 

“Yeah,” he says. “I just thought - I don’t know. Guess it’s not always like it looks on tv and stuff.”

Ariadne knows girls who’ve kissed with tongue, but it sounds a little gross, to be honest. “We can try that some other time?” she offers. “I mean. If you want to.”

“No, I want to!” he says. “I guess...are we boyfriend and girlfriend now?”

“Yes,” she says, even though she’s not technically allowed to date anyone until she’s sixteen. That’s not for _three whole years_ ; who has the time for that? “D’you wanna see if there’s any baseball on?”

She pretends not to notice that Arthur looks a little relieved.

\--

They do end up kissing with tongue, even if Ariadne refuses to let Arthur feel her up over her shirt. It’s not that gross, but she doesn’t see what’s so fun about it. Maybe it gets better with practice. Except then, one day near the end of the school year, Arthur pulls away abruptly. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I can’t.”

She bites her lip. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No!” He looks horrified. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I just... I...” Arthur looks at the floor. “I think I might like boys,” he says. 

“You think?” she asks cautiously.

“I’m pretty sure,” he admits. “I mean, I’ve never kissed a boy or anything, but.” He swallows nervously. “I’m pretty sure I’m gay.”

Ariadne sighs. “I guess that means we have to break up, doesn’t it.”

“Probably,” he says apologetically. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she says with a shrug. “As long as we can still stay friends and do homework together and stuff.”

“And watch baseball together,” Arthur reminds her, because he’s determined to indoctrinate her into every aspect of the sport.

“And watch baseball together,” she agrees, because maybe someday she’ll design a baseball stadium, and every bit of knowledge helps.

\--

Arthur’s there for her the next year when her new boyfriend dumps her for a cheerleader, and the year after that he holds her hair while she pukes after they’ve spent the night raiding his parents’ liquor cabinet, even though he’s just as wasted as she is. (Fine - maybe slightly less.) “It’ll be your turn someday,” he says cheerfully.

But when her turn comes, it’s a bright and hot late spring day, the last game of the season, and Arthur’s out in the field. Mr. Wolf is coaching and Ariadne is on the closest bleacher to the team because she likes to hear Mr. Wolf curse out the umpire. She used to try to talk to Arthur, but he doesn’t like to, it disrupts his focus.

The point is - she’s nearby, when Mr. Wolf all of a sudden staggers down to one knee, and then folds over on the ground. “Mr. Wolf!” she yells, and then Arthur screams, “ _Dad!_ ” The umpire bellows for a doctor, and everyone is shouting, shouting, shouting. When the ambulance arrives, Ariadne grabs Arthur’s hand and holds tight, squeezing his hand until they make her let go.

\--

Ariadne sits with Arthur and Mrs. Wolf at the funeral. She doesn’t cry - she’s cried a lot in the past few days and her eyes are red and achy, but she can’t summon up the tears. She feels drained. Mrs. Wolf trembles and weeps silently; Arthur is pale and drawn. He hasn’t cried, not that she’s seen, but he hasn’t seen her cry either. All her tears have been shed in the privacy of her own bedroom, because it isn’t right that she should cry in front of Arthur if he isn’t crying too. It’s his dad and his loss, for all she feels it as well.

Mrs. Wolf wants to take Arthur on a vacation for the whole summer, but Arthur refuses. Mrs. Wolf calls Ariadne’s house a couple of nights later - the call’s not for her, but once her mom picks up the line in the kitchen, she sneaks off to listen in on the phone in her mom’s bedroom.

“I can’t be in the house,” Mrs. Wolf is saying. “Everything reminds me too much of him. I just - need some distance. To heal without his presence everywhere.”

Ariadne’s mom says, “Mm.” (Her mom is a psychiatrist. She’s good at making encouraging noises.)

“But Arthur,” Mrs. Wolf continues. “He doesn’t want to go on vacation. I could just force him to go with me, but--” She lets out a little sob.

“He’s a little young to stay home by himself for the rest of the summer,” Ariadne’s mom says neutrally.

“Of course not, I know - I was...I was hoping you might let him stay with you. Just for a few weeks, I’ll be back before school starts again. He and Ariadne are so close.”

“If Arthur wants to stay, we have room for him,” she says.

“Oh thank god,” says Mrs. Wolf, all in a rush. “I’m sorry - you must think I’m a terrible parent--”

_Yeah, you are,_ Ariadne thinks, and has to bite her fist to keep from interjecting into the conversation. But all Ariadne’s mom says is, “There’s no right way to go about grieving. If this is the method that works for you both, we’re happy to help.”

Later, during dinner, her mom passes her the potatoes and asks, “How much did you hear?” 

Ariadne winces. “All of it? Almost?”

“There’s this thing called privacy, Ariadne,” her mom begins with a sigh. Yeah, Ariadne’s never been good at that.

\--

It’s not a good summer. They bring in one of the tvs from Arthur’s house so that they can watch baseball, but he doesn’t want to. Arthur’s angry and moody and she totally gets that, but it’s still kind of a pain in the ass. Some days he won’t leave his room; other days he leaves in the morning and doesn’t come back for hours. Ariadne doesn’t ask where he goes - if he wanted her to know, he’d say so. (See? Privacy! She’s learning!)

One night at dinner, Ariadne’s mom mentions that there’s talk of renaming the high school ballpark after Mr. Wolf. Arthur bolts up from the table and to the bathroom, locking the door behind him. It’s not soundproofed very well. They both quickly lose their appetites. 

Ariadne’s sitting on the floor waiting for him when he finally emerges. “Got you a glass of water,” she tells him. “You might wanna brush your teeth first.”

“Ariadne,” he says, and slumps down next to her.

“Yeah,” she says, gathering him in her arms as he shakes. “I’m here.”


	2. During

The first time Mal hears Arthur Wolf’s name, it’s only as an aside: Dominic happened to meet him at a charity event, they had a mutual friend who was one of Dominic’s teammates on the San Francisco Giants, and they got along well enough to make the night bearable. “But it would have been better if you were there,” Dominic adds. Some people would say it jokingly; he is utter sincerity. They are thousands of miles apart, she in Paris and he in Arizona, and she misses him desperately.

“Oh,” she sighs into the phone. “You charmer.”

\--

The second time she hears Arthur’s name, it’s along with that of the mutual friend - Eames, whose first name she surely knew at one point, but, as he never uses it, she has never bothered trying to remember. She’s met Eames a few times and (while she’s not sure she knows him well enough to like him) she appreciates how seamlessly he’s woven himself into the team, despite being an Englishman playing an American’s game. The press adore him. 

More importantly, Dominic gets along well with him, and of late he and Eames and Arthur Wolf have formed a little trio, getting together whenever they happen to be in the same city. It’s good, Mal thinks. A life on the road can be lonesome. She knows that as well as he does; though she travels less for modeling than he does for baseball, it feels like she spends half her days in hotel rooms. It would be unbearable if, early in her career, she hadn’t made a point of befriending all the models she worked with. It’s made it easier, now, for she’s still friends with most of those who are still working, and has added new friends besides. She sees no point in backstabbing.

But then again, she never had to. Mal rose to the top without needing to step on anyone’s shoulders.

\--

She hears Arthur’s name many a time after that, most significantly when she and Dominic are making the guest list for their wedding. All of Dominic’s teammates are invited (they have to look up Eames’ first name on the Giants’ official website), but few other ballplayers are, and most of those are former teammates. She’s surprised and yet not surprised when Dominic insists Arthur be invited; on one hand, the two have only been friends for some months, but on the other hand, Arthur’s already become one of his closest friends. Either way, what’s one more name on the list? Mal takes it as an excuse to invite Johnny Depp.

It’s at the wedding - the reception, really - that she first meets Arthur. He isn’t what she’s expecting; from what Dominic says, Arthur’s got quite a following among the female fans of his team, and, given those dimples, she’s surprised to find out that he’s attended the wedding without a date. But with no one else to occupy his company, it means he’s free to dance with her; he’s unexpectedly graceful - a relic, he says, of childhood dance lessons and years playing at shortstop. But through it all he’s strangely detached, though perfectly polite, and Mal assumes he’s just naturally reserved, or perhaps simply tired from travel. A lovely dance partner, in all, but she has many lovely dance partners that night. He fades, a bit, in comparison.

\--

Mal’s first photo shoot when she returns from her honeymoon is a spread for _Vogue Paris_. She knew when her agent booked the job that they would be photographing her and a male model, but she hadn’t known which model, specifically. It delights her, therefore, to see Robert Fischer lounging in a salon chair while the stylist fusses with his hair. “Robert!” she cries, rushing over to air-kiss him. The stylist lets out a panicked cry. “Oh, I did not touch his hair,” Mal scolds. “Please. I respect your craft, and his makeup is not yet done, anyway.” She remembers him when he was young - young _er_ , she should say - and still fidgeted during photo shoots. She’s proud of the poise he’s developed since then. 

Robert laughs. “Mal, it’s good to see you. How was the honeymoon?”

“Very pleasant,” she says, sitting in the chair next to him. “Very _quiet_. It is good to be back in a city again.”

The makeup artist shushes her; Mal sits obediently still and silent. Once she is in front of the camera, then she is the performer, the artist, but now she is but the canvas. The stylists become so very cross when their canvas moves without permission.

They photograph her and Robert separately, first, so it’s some time before they’re close enough to continue their conversation. “Your wedding was beautiful,” he says to her, helping her balance as the stylist peels her out of a many-layered confection. “As were you. But--”

“Are you flattering me for a purpose?”

“Purely for my own gains,” he smiles. “I’m frankly offended that I was never introduced to the handsomest man at your wedding.”

She pouts. “But you’ve met Dominic before!”

“You’d stab me with a stiletto if I ever even _thought_ about him that way.” Robert raises an eyebrow; she shrugs in agreement. There were several hundred people at the wedding; there were bound to be people whom he did not meet. “No, he must have been on Dominic’s side, since I didn’t recognize him. About my height, dark hair...” She gives him a sidelong look and he laughs. “Three-piece suit - gray windowpane - white shirt, purple tie. You danced with him a few times.”

“Oh!” Mal says, letting go of his hand in order to be laced into a different gown. The stylists are helping Robert into yet another suit. He looks divine, of course, but she feels sorry that he doesn’t get the variety of looks she does. “Of course. Arthur. He is one of Dominic’s friends, he plays baseball.”

“Ah,” he replies. “So he’s - he’s straight, then.”

“As far as I know,” she says, giving him an apologetic glance. “I only met him for the first time at the wedding. I can try to find out?”

“No, it’s fine,” Robert says resignedly. “He’s an athlete. Athletes are always straight. It’s a shame, though. He’s beautiful.”

\--

Even though Robert said not to, she still asks Dominic about it when she returns to their Paris home after the photoshoot, although she changes a few key details to be safe. “Your friend, Arthur? One of my friends would like to know if he is seeing anybody. She was quite taken with him at the wedding.”

“Arthur?” Dom asks. “I don’t think so. He goes on dates now and then - I set him up with your friend Isabel, remember?”

“It did not go very well,” Mal says wryly. 

“Not so much,” he agrees with a laugh. “I think he doesn’t really like casual dating. He’s looking for, you know, a relationship. It’s hard to do that when you travel as much as we do. Which friend?”

“What?”

“Which friend of yours has her eye on him? We can’t have him dating anyone unsuitable.”

“You are not his mother,” she scoffs. “It was Katrin, anyway. She lives in Australia now, it would never work out.” So Robert was right, it seems; the lovely Arthur does indeed prefer the fairer sex. And that is the last time that Mal thinks about it until years later, after she has had one daughter and has a son on the way.

They have had a house built in Sonoma County, north of San Francisco, where the Giants play. Dominic does not mind the commute; Mal adores the view. It’s perhaps not the most convenient of locations, as far as modeling goes, but she is accustomed to flying far and wide for many a job. Besides, in the winter, they live in Paris. They both must make their sacrifices.

In what is part a miniature housewarming party and part a “Welcome to San Francisco” dinner for Arthur, newly traded from the Dodgers to the Giants, they have him and Eames over for dinner one night. They have an enjoyable evening, relaxing and eating and drinking; Mal will be ever so happy when she can drink wine again. But her enforced sobriety means she has plenty of time to observe, and so she sees the way Eames looks at Arthur, as if he holds the stars in his hands, and the way Arthur’s firm personal space boundaries seem to fall away around Eames. She sees, after dinner, the way Arthur keeps glancing to Eames for reassurance. _Ah,_ she thinks. Perhaps Robert was incorrect.

“Arthur looks serious,” Mal says to Eames, after Arthur and Dominic have left the room. Eames is helping her clear the table, the both of them sidestepping to avoid trampling Philippa as she plays on the floor.

“What makes you say that?” he asks, arching his eyebrows, but she didn’t miss the quickness of his look towards her.

“He had a serious face,” she replies with a shrug. “He kept looking back over his shoulder, like he thought there might be trouble.” Eames hands her a dish, which she carries to the sink to soak. “Do you remember meeting Robert Fischer, at our wedding?”

“I believe he was pointed out to me,” Eames says. “I don’t think I had the pleasure of an introduction.”

“It does not matter,” she says, waving a hand as she goes to collect silverware from the table. “He models with me in Paris. After I came back from the honeymoon, we were at a photo shoot, and he was asking me many questions about our friend in there.” She tilts her head toward the living room. “Robert said he was the handsomest man at the wedding, and wanted to know if I knew his - inclinations.”

“His inclinations,” Eames repeats, his shoulders tensing. “And you said?”

“I said that I did not know, because I did not know Arthur well. But I think that if Robert asked me again, I would tell him that Arthur’s interests are otherwise occupied at the moment.” Mal deposits the silverware in the dishwasher and turns to give him a piercing look. “No?”

He freezes, only beginning to relax when he sees that she’s not attacking, only waiting for a response. “We were less subtle than we mean to be, then.”

Mal smiles. “I think Dominic did not notice.” She _knows_ Dominic did not notice; he has always only had eyes for her. “I spend my time with a greater variety of people, it makes me more attuned to such things. You should look at him less, if you want to go unnoticed. Or, no, look at him _differently_. Right now, you linger.”

“Duly noted,” he breathes. “Thank you.”

“Go join them,” she instructs, swooping down to pick up her daughter, who babbles happily; at eighteen months, Philippa has a few words in both English and French, but mostly communicates by inflection and making faces. “I need to put Philippa to bed.” 

He obeys, leaving her to carry Philippa upstairs to feed her, change her, and put her to bed. She is a sweet-dispositioned child, Mal thinks, when Philippa is sated and sleepy-eyed, and dresses her in bunny-printed footie pajamas. “Papa?” Philippa asks as Mal lays her in the crib, and Mal smiles.

“In a minute, _cherie_ ,” she says, tucking the blanket around her and placing Philippa’s favorite stuffed bear within arm’s reach. “He was having a very important conversation, I believe, and we would not want to interrupt him while Arthur and Eames are telling him their secrets. Best to let them finish first.”

“Eens?” 

“Yes, Eames.” Mal smiles down at her. “You have met him once or twice before, even if you do not remember. He is a good friend to Papa. But he has to hide himself and that makes him sad.”

Philippa looks quizzical. It’s hard to tell if it’s gas or curiosity.

“Because people are unkind, _cherie_ ,” she says, answering the unspoken question anyway. “But perhaps your generation will be kinder, if we can teach you to be so.” She reaches down to brush a blonde curl off Philippa’s forehead. “Now, you rest a moment. I will fetch Papa to kiss you goodnight.”

\--

Much later that night, after Arthur and Eames have departed, she and Dominic lie in bed together. “So,” Dominic starts.

“Mm,” Mal says, snuggling against him. “Yes.”

“What?” he asks, startled. “No, I meant - Eames and Arthur.”

“ _Oui_ , as did I.”

“Did you - did you _know_?”

“Not until tonight,” she says. “But it was obvious from the way that they looked at each other.”

“It was?”

“Well,” she allows. “If you know what you’re looking for.”

“Do you think anyone else knows?”

Mal sighs, resting her head against his shoulder. “I would doubt it. After all, athletes are alway straight.”

\--

It is actually a lovely photograph, Mal thinks clinically, a few weeks later. More than likely it will win some awards. 

The photo in question was taken just after the final out of Eames’ perfect game, when the team had stormed the pitcher’s mound in joy. Framed by someone’s arm and someone else’s back, there manages to be a perfectly clear image of Eames and Arthur, stealing a kiss beneath the pile-up of players. 

She knows from Dominic that they have thus far kept the photographer from going public, but there is an immediate frenzy of meetings, of phone calls, of brainstorming sessions. Now, as she watches on the tv, there is a press conference, timed to begin at the exact moment the team releases the photo and accompanying article to the web.

Before Arthur and Eames emerge before the press, Dominic comes to the microphone. “I just want you all to know,” he says, “that I and the rest of the team stand with Arthur and Eames one hundred percent, so you don’t need to bother asking any questions about how this affects the team.” He moves to the back of the platform and stands there, glowering, as Eames and Arthur take the stage.

“So,” the first reporter says awkwardly. “This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment, adrenaline-rush, never-gonna-happen-again kind of thing.”

“Not as such, no,” says Eames, and things don’t improve from there. When it is over, both men look exhausted, and Mal’s heart aches for them, knowing their fight is only barely just begun. Dominic looks nearly as tired when he returns home, hours later.

“Are they all right?” she asks him.

“Could’ve gone worse,” he says. “But I hope - I think things will calm down soon enough. I think they’ll be okay.”


	3. After

It starts as a typical January morning, with Arthur perusing the news online and Eames trying to consume enough caffeine to act like a functional human being.

"Oh, shit," Arthur says, jerking back from his laptop screen in shock.

Eames glances up from his morning coffee. "What's the matter, love?"

"Earl Weaver died," Arthur says, his voice tight and strained

Earl--? Eames has to shake himself out of a British mentality and remind himself that Americans use "Earl" as a given name. "Remind me...?" he asks gently.

"He managed the Orioles for years," Arthur replies, standing and beginning to pace around the room. It's the team that they were both drafted by, but while Eames had been traded after barely a season, Arthur had stayed with the organization for a good few years. "He's - he _was_ \- kind of a legend. You'd have liked him. He hated umpires."

"Who doesn't?" Eames asks sardonically.

Arthur laughs. "No one hated them like him. There's this one story - he wanted to check the rulebook on something, the ump says, 'Use mine,' and Weaver says - he says - 'What good would that do, I can't read fuckin' Braille!'"

"You made that up," Eames accuses him, but Arthur's shaking his head.

"It's true, I swear," he says, "at least as far as I know. I met him a few times at team events - he was larger than life. _Jesus,_ " Arthur says, and stops to lean against the wall like it’s the only thing holding him up.

Eames gets up to stand behind Arthur, to wrap his arms around the other man's shoulders and hold him. "You thought he'd live forever," he says. Not a question; a fact. No one expects legends to end.

"Yeah," Arthur manages. "Shit, I'm sorry, I didn't even know him that well, I--"

"But you did know him," Eames interrupts. "And that's what matters."

"Yeah," Arthur says again, shakily. "Eames--" and he twists around to face Eame him, holding him like a lifeline, silently shaking. 

"I've got you," Eames promises, and after a few minutes the morning is back to normal, Arthur's eyes red but dry, and that should be the end of it. The rest of the day should be a normal winter Saturday.

Except then that evening, they find out that Stan Musial died.

"Mother _fuck_ ," Arthur says, voice breaking. "What is this, a conspiracy?"

Because neither of them had known Stan Musial, "Stan the Man," but he was a paragon of baseball, one of few remaining representatives of an era where players had given up their careers to go fight a war, and then come back and kept on playing even better than before. He'd played back in an era when players spent their entire career with one team. And now--

"They say these things come in threes," Eames hears himself saying, stupidly, inanely.

"Who the fuck else is _left_?" Arthur asks despairingly, and Eames--

Eames doesn't know. He's not as well-versed in baseball history as Arthur is, not having grown up in the states, not having grown up with story after story of baseball players of yore. "I'm just being cynical," Eames says, trying to be soothing. "It's just a coincidence." 

"You're not, though, you're right," Arthur says. "You remember a few years ago - Farrah Fawcett died, and then Michael Jackson died, and right around then someone else had died - Ed McMahon--"

"Shh," says Eames. "Shh. Let's just - we can stay up all night, if you want to, so there's no surprises in the morning. Keep one tv on ESPN and one on the baseball channel and keep twitter open so that if anything happens, we see it."

The look of relief in Arthur's eyes is unmistakable. "Can we?"

"Of course we can, darling," Eames soothes. And they do, they camp out in front of the telly on Eames' stupidly big sofa ( _their_ sofa, but it had been Eames' first) and watch, and wait, and eventually, inevitably fall asleep.

But in the morning, no one else has died, nor the morning after that. (Many people have died, Eames is sure, but he's selfishly glad that no one has died who he or Arthur knew, that no more baseball legends have passed on.) Eames can practically see two days' worth of tension leave Arthur's shoulders. He knows that neither of them will believe they're home free - so to speak - until another week has gone by, but...it's good enough, for now. They'll take what they can get. And yet Eames isn't expecting it when that night in bed, Arthur buries his face in Eames' shoulder and says, "Every time someone in baseball dies, it makes me think of my dad."

Arthur's father, Eames knows, died during one of Arthur's high school games. But that's nearly the sum of what he knows; Arthur doesn't talk about it much, if ever, and their friend Ariadne refuses to tell anything further. "I know it's not the same," Arthur continues. "These are - were - old men. They lived their lives. They did great things. And Dad - he never got that chance. But maybe he could've. We don't know. And then it makes me think of us - of _you_ \--"

"Oh, love," Eames sighs, pressing a kiss to Arthur's temple.

"It's stupid, I know," Arthur says thickly, and Eames can feel Arthur's tears falling onto his shoulder. "But I can't shake the feeling that I've only got as long to live as my dad did. And that's not all that much longer."

"We are not our parents," says Eames, more sharply than he'd meant to. "God help us if we were. Your life is _yours_ , Arthur, and even if your life expectancy is only as long as your father's, you are still the most precious thing to me in the world. Even if we only have another five years together - even if we only have another five _months_ together, I wouldn't trade it for anything. I want to spend the rest of our lives together, no matter how long or short that time is."

"...Eames," Arthur says, pulling slightly away. "Are you asking me to marry you?"

Eames takes a moment to think. "No, although that wouldn’t have been the worst way to do it," he answers regretfully. "But also, if I were, I'd do it properly, on one knee and with a ring and all. So. That wasn't me proposing. But if you're not adverse to the idea, then I expect I'll be paying a visit to a jeweler first thing tomorrow."

"I'm not adverse to the idea," Arthur tells him, pulling Eames close. "And how about I just give you a preemptive 'yes' while we're on the subject?"

Ten days later, when Eames goes to officially propose, he fully intends to go down on one knee for tradition's sake, except that before he can do so, Arthur beats him to the punch, down on bended knee and holding out a wholly different ring box than the one Eames has in his jacket pocket. "I already said yes to you," Arthur says. "So it probably doesn't make much difference. But, Eames...will you marry me?"

(When they ask Ariadne to be their maid of honor, she declines: “I’d rather be the best woman,” she tells them. “And Dom can be the gentleman of honor. I think that would be _way_ more appropriate.”)


End file.
